


Blasted morphemes

by transxander



Series: Ferdibert Week 2019 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, art student!ferdie, hubert is a hopeless romantic: the fic, if i want to write hubert screaming about how perfect ferdinand is for an entire fic i can, language major!hubert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21646078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transxander/pseuds/transxander
Summary: Writing a paper is much more difficult when your roommate is inexplicably distracting.[prompt: modern]
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Ferdibert Week 2019 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559263
Comments: 3
Kudos: 131





	Blasted morphemes

**Author's Note:**

> yes i am currently writing a paper on complex morphemes and yes i hate them. let me live vicariously through hubert. anyway ferdibert week day two is upon us!! i love modern aus so i couldnt pass this one up. hope you enjoy!!

Hubert does not dislike his roommate, per se. He leaves paint everywhere, but he cleans it up afterwards, and even though he is loud and garish, his presence is more comforting than he would have expected. Something about proofreading his linguistics paper with Ferdinand singing to himself as he works on his latest painting feels homely.

He does dislike that.

The closest he had ever gotten to something so domestic was sitting down on Edelgard’s bed, listening to music they related to perhaps a bit too much as they painted each other’s nails. That is something entirely different to this, he thinks. That was Edelgard, and they were teenagers. For all intents and purposes, he is an adult now. Surely he has something better to do than spend too much time thinking on whimsical fantasies of a homelife he will never have.

Yet something in him does not care. A foolish part, he is sure. He glances in Ferdinand’s direction, and immediately looks away again when their eyes meet, but not quickly enough to miss the gentle smile that makes him think there is no way he is not a deity fallen down to Earth.

Sometimes he wishes he was the one with the artistic talent, so he could commit these small moments to paper, and never forget them. He wonders if that is dangerous territory, yet. It probably is.

He tries to force his attention back to his paper, but unfortunately, Ferdinand is much more alluring than any complex morphemes, and so it proves to be futile. Maybe a cup of coffee will help with his concentration. He reaches for the flask on the table, only to find it disappointingly empty. Sighing, he pushes himself up off of the ground. He had better go make that coffee, if he hopes to finish his paper anytime soon.

“Taking a break?” Ferdinand sounds like sunlight streaming through open windows, a smile to welcome you home, the warmth of a hug after a long, cold day, and it is so incredibly distracting that, for a moment, Hubert does not know what to do with himself besides stand there, uncomfortably bent halfway into getting up, before he comes crashing down from his cloud nine with the immediate realization that the only way he might finish this paper in time is if he moves to Antarctica and never speaks to Ferdinand again.

He cannot say it is a situation he is particularly looking forward to, however beneficial it would be to his productivity. Maybe Edelgard had been right, when she, nearing the end of a Skype call that had taken so long he could not even remember when it began, joked he had gone soft since Ferdinand moved in. She did know him so very well.

“Yes. I have run out of coffee.”

The feigned horror on Ferdinand’s face is so endearing it threatens to steal his breath. “Oh no,” he says in something that he could not call a proper recreation of his own voice with all the goodwill in the world, yet it still makes him smile like a complete fool, “where has my delicious devil juice gone? I must search far and wide, for without it, I fear I will succumb to mortal man’s one and only downfall: a full night’s sleep! The horror, the tragedy!”

Hubert cannot help but play along with his ridiculous act, and that, in and of itself, is a terrifying notion, almost. Sometimes he has to wonder if he really is as cynical and serious as he once thought. “As I set out in search of my ‘devil’s juice’, would the fair maiden be interested in a cup of tea? Only the finest brew, of course, as fine as a devil’s servant such as myself can manage it.”

Ferdinand’s smile is blinding, not in its intensity, but in its genuine warmth, and it may very well be the death of Hubert, one day. Fortunately (or rather, unfortunately, because what wouldn’t he do to see that smile for one moment longer?) he turns back to his work. leaving him free to flee into their kitchen, where he can finally calm his breathing. How he has lived for so long with this man as his roommate is well beyond him at this point.

Luckily, he needs little brain power to brew a pot of coffee, which is not to say he would like to give his mind leave to wander where-ever it may, but there is not much he can do about it, as he has been demonstrating to himself the entire evening. Humming his discontent, he rummages through cupboards and drawers to find Ferdinand’s favourite tea, one with lavender, that is said to calm the mind and make for ease of sleeping. Ferdinand has also said he simply enjoys the taste, which is as good a reason as any. However, to his increasing worry, he cannot find the box anywhere. “Ferdinand?”

“Yes, Hubie?” he calls back, sounding delightfully surprised, and, oh, that nickname. Hubert promptly forgets what he wanted to ask.

“Uh,” he manages to stutter, “do you know where your lavender tea has gone?”

The laugh that sounds through the apartment is bright, like bells on a cold winter morning, the gentle chirping of birds in spring, the last light of a wonderful autumn sunset, the subtle perfume of blooming summer blossoms. Again, he finds Ferdinand to be wholly and completely distracting. “The devil’s servant, looking for floral teas? What a sight! I believe you may find some with Ashe. They had run out, so I lent him mine.”

With a quiet chuckle he reaches for the front door handle. As he opens the door, walks down the hall to the apartment Ashe shares with his two roommates, he recalls that he stood here, really not too long ago, at the beginning of the school year, fully intending to leave and never come back. Ferdinand and he’d had a disagreement about something trivial, he is sure, like who was supposed to do the dishes, which came to a head with him storming out. Sometimes, he thinks, change does come rather suddenly, doesn’t it?

He knocks on Ashe’s door, two times, in quick succession, as he has always done, and will continue to do, for he is a man of traditions (and Ferdinand is the opposite). After only a few moments, the freckled face of the young man he is looking for peeks out from behind the door. Ashe is an art student, like Ferdinand, and as such they had become fast friends, if he is to believe the stories they both tell. Hubert can appreciate him for his determination to reach his goals, and his kind honesty with his friends. “Good evening. Ferdinand told me you borrowed his lavender tea. I would appreciate it if you’d return it.”

Immediately, his face brightens in understanding, and he turns around to make his way back into his apartment. “Hubert’s here for the tea, Dedue, where—Felix, he is as much a serial killer as you are, leave him alone—where did I put it, do you remember?”

Their playful banter and the worryingly loud clanking that accompanies his search brings a smile to Hubert’s face, he can’t help it. Still, he has a reputation as fearsome and intimidating man to uphold, so he quickly pulls his face back into an appropriately blank expression as he thanks Ashe and takes the tea from him. Something about his grin tells him he has not convinced him, though.

By the time he returns to his own apartment, the last drops of coffee fall into the pot, and the water for the tea is boiling. It is simple enough, now that he has the tea in question, to brew a cup for Ferdinand, who looks up gratefully and presses a kiss to his cheek when he sets it down in front of him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing myself on canvas,” Hubert says, nodding to the painting.

Gently, Ferdinand traces its edges, seemingly transfixed with the image of him sitting in the windowsill, holding a lightly steaming cup of coffee. The colours he used are soft, befitting of the loose strokes that characterize his works, and they make the whole look more like a dream than it has any right to, in his mind (it is only Hubert, after all, nothing special). “We were told to pick a subject that is important to us. I did not even have to think.”

Hubert lets his burning face fall into his hands, reminded by the beautiful, joyful laughter next to him that there is absolutely no way he is going to finish that paper.

Well, he thinks, morphemes be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!


End file.
